


Need You Tonight

by leavingonatrain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Clothed Sex, Dirty Talk, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Emotionally Constipated Boys, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, HP: EWE, Harry Potter Thinks Draco Malfoy is Up to Something, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Riding, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 20:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13597962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leavingonatrain/pseuds/leavingonatrain
Summary: Draco has been stared at his entire life – even if the emotions propelling it had varied from envy to fear and then to contempt, he's used to being the centre of attention.The stares he gets when he dresses up as a Muggle and flirts his way into The Peach – a multi-storey, neon-ridden gay club – are of an entirely different nature.





	Need You Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Foraying into writing for my very first fandom with some filthy smut, as you do. Enjoy!

The heavy thud of the bass seems to bounce off the walls as Draco expertly weaves through the mass of bodies. He wears his Muggle clothing like battle armour, the sheer lace black shirt found in the women’s section of a high end store leaving little to the imagination, attracting hungry stares wherever he goes. Draco has been stared at his entire life – even if the emotions propelling it had varied from envy to fear and then to contempt, he’s used to being the centre of attention.

The stares he gets when he dresses up as a Muggle and flirts his way into The Peach, a multi-storey, neon-ridden gay club, are of an entirely different nature.

He remembers the first time he came across the club as if it were yesterday. Being in the Manor often felt so stifling he’d taken to apparating into London for late night walks, wizard robes and all – after a certain hour no one looked at him twice, assumed him to be just another one of the oddities of London’s nightlife. He’d much prefer a walk around the countryside, but even five years since the war there were still enough people who wanted him to pay for his mistakes with his own life (as stated in no uncertain terms in most of his hatemail) that he felt safer in a street full of Muggles than in all wizarding places he knew. The irony was not lost on him.

During one of these walks, he’d wandered into Soho–close enough to Diagon Alley that he knew where he was, but far away enough that he wouldn’t bump into any wizards–when a group of scantily clad young men spilled off a bus and onto Shaftesbury Ave. There was something about them – the word _Veela_ floated into his mind before it was dismissed, those men were definitely Muggles (their clothing was so tight there simply wasn’t enough room to conceal a wand short of shoving it up one’s bottom), and yet Draco was drawn to them as if by some enchantment, following them from a reasonable distance up Old Compton street until they entered a venue Draco _clearly_ was overdressed for.

He’d watched the steadily progressing queue from across the street – the men from the bus had bypassed it, let into the venue by the bulky bloke on the door who apparently was some sort of gate keeper, though the only common feature between the men who didn’t have to queue he could discern was that they were all good-looking and dressed in a manner Draco soon realised was viewed as fashionable among their peers.

 _He could definitely be let into that venue_ , Draco had thought, the notion of queuing up as foreign as the behaviour he was currently witnessing. As he watched, a couple stumbled out of the club; the tall, long haired one being quite inebriated and partially supported by his companion, who was smaller, curvier and partly engrossed in one of those little rectangular devices who passed for their version of a wand – every Muggle seemed to possess one, for starters, but they seemed to also be used to summon their vehicles. That second function was a bit of a deduction of his, after observing various Muggles performing the ritual of staring into the device and onto the street, as if expecting something, much like the boy was doing, then entering a vehicle seemingly at random and speeding off. Curly said something into Curvy’s ear that made him smile salaciously, and he in turn went on his tiptoes and kissed him right there in front of at least a dozen other Muggles and Draco thought, _Oh_.

Not long after, a red vehicle pulled up to the curb and, as Draco had expected, they entered the vehicle and sped off, snapping him out of his stupor. He’d turned around and started to walk back to the Leaky, even more determined to gain access to the venue.

The first attempt was made the following day – he’d procured his old Hogwarts uniform, discarding everything but the simple white shirt he used to wear under his Slytherin pullover and the black trousers, his only clothes that could pass for that of a Muggle’s. They were a bit snug on him after five years, since not only had he put on a bit of muscle since then, but he had also been unhealthily thin back then, the weight of his and his family’s bad choices robbing him of his appetite. The tightness didn’t seem to be an issue between those Muggles, though, and just like that Draco found himself in the same spot as the day before, gathering his wits as he prepared to cross the street, wand concealed in his sleeve just in case he had to _Confund_ the gate-keeper into letting him in.

As he sauntered towards the door with an apparent confidence that only concealed his nervousness due to years of practice, the gate-keeper looked at his buttoned up shirt and slacks and said, “Sorry, pal, it’s a gay club,” and that’s how Draco found himself uttering, for the first time ever, “Yes, and _I’m gay_.”

 

That, however, was a lifetime ago – or at least it seemed like it. He hadn’t needed to say the words again, because he looks the part and _loves it_. Nowadays he’s confident enough to walk in with a mere wink to the _bouncer_ (he’d learned the proper term after the first few times), confident enough to relax and wear whatever the fuck he wants (his penchant for _exclusive_ had transferred itself into his Muggle fashion sense – though he still struggled with notions such as _cheap_ and _expensive_ when dealing with Muggle money, he could spot high fashion just by looking at it, even in the Muggle stores), and confident enough to let himself be chatted up by the various guys that approached him, without feeling like a big neon _INTRUDER_ is etched into his forehead.

It’s liberating, to be able to relax and just let himself _be_ , drinking and dancing, taking lovers or making friendships that only last one night. He’s been asked for an _encore_ more than once, but the Muggles find it hard to believe he doesn’t have a phone number – eventually he just memorised one from an advert on Trafalgar square and now feeds it to those who ask.

 

He’s got so good at his Muggle disguise, even _sans_ smartphone/wand, that it’s with some confusion that he spots a familiar face in the crowd, leaning on the bar with his _Cosmopolitan_ in hand and his hip popped out.

At first it doesn’t even register, his eyes passing over Potter’s face like he’s imagining him, like it’s sixth year all over again and Draco’s in the midst of a very ill-timed gay epiphany. But his memory of Potter is perfect. Exact. It definitely doesn’t involve a tight black shirt, no glasses and _stubble_ , and it’s with dawning horror that he realises that it _is_ Harry Potter he’s looking at. Harry _bloody_ Potter, looking delicious in a Muggle gay club and Merlin, Draco is going to pass out.

Potter turns his head and their eyes lock, and it’s through sheer force of will that Draco doesn’t apparate back to the Manor _right fucking then_ , packed club and all. He’s frozen in place, watching as the colour slowly drains from Potter’s face, and _Merlin_ , he must look even worse.

After a few tortuous seconds, his brain seems to regain control of his limbs. Draco turns the opposite direction and stumbles away with the grace of a newborn centaur, his heart hammering in his throat, the beat of the music pounding in his head, the press of people suddenly overwhelming. He pushes into a toilet with trembling legs, spots in his vision as he fumbles for a free stall, snapping the deadbolt and leaning against the closed door as he tries to regulate his breathing.

It’s futile, his desperation only growing as he thinks, _it’s over_. The Boy Who Defeated Voldemort would be forgiven for child _bloody_ murder, let alone being gay; but Draco won’t. He presses his balled fists into his eyes, resisting the urge to _wail_. It’s been so long– so bloody long since Draco’s allowed himself to _care_ , to step out of his protective cocoon of numbness and let himself enjoy something, and once again Potter is snatching it right from under his nose except this time he’s done _nothing wrong_. His notion of what he does or does not deserve was irrevocably changed since coming to terms with the part he played in the war, but Draco’s pretty sure he deserves _this_ , he deserves a few hours of respite from the disappointment in his father’s eyes and the regret in his mother’s, he deserves to _exist_ in anonymity in a place where he can be himself for what is probably the first time ever, and it’s not _fair_.

 _Obliviate him_ , says a little voice in the back of his head, but Draco’s got good enough in ignoring the small part of him that he’s never been taught to control and ruled his actions for so long; he’s got pretty bloody good in reminding himself that there’s good and bad in everyone and it’s the way he reacts to it that matter, so much so that he dismisses the idea with barely no effort.

What’s done is done. Potter knows, and he’s going to tell his friends that Draco Malfoy was seen in Muggle London, in a gay club, in gay clothes. Well _fuck him_ , Draco thinks viciously, it’s not like things can get that much worse for Draco society-wise, so fuck him to the moon and back for making Draco feel bad about the only thing that closely resembles his own identity, _his, Draco’s_ , not as a Malfoy or a pureblood or a fucking Death Eater, so _fuck Harry Potter_ , what’s _he_ doing here anyway? The whole wizarding world at his feet wasn’t enough? It’s not like he’d have trouble pulling, being the most eligible bachelor and all. Draco’s seen the headlines. The detail of coverage on Potter’s love life in the Prophet borders the psychotic, and yet, _yet_ , it’s not enough for him, no, he had to come in here and invade Draco’s safest space like the Muggle world is, too, his for the taking. Well, _it’s not_. He might be Harry Potter, but that means _shit_ this side of the Leaky’s threshold, and Draco will _not_ be intimidated into fleeing because of him. If over there his ghost of a life is over and there’s nothing he can do about it (because, _Merlin_ , he will jump from the roof of the Manor before he begs Potter for his silence, he will not owe him _more_ ), _here_ he is still just a hot guy in a hot outfit who came out to have a good time and Potter can go sit on a spiky bush for all that Draco cares.

 

He walks out with renewed vigour, hoping after a glance in the mirror that his red face passes for exertion, and makes a beeline for the bar, to the exact spot he was stationed in earlier. He orders another drink and turns to peruse the dance floor, _daring_ Potter to approach him, but he’s nowhere to be found, probably already gossiping with Weasley and Granger over the Floo, and so Draco relaxes minutely, deciding to hit the dance floor after a couple of shots (and honestly, who knew Muggles had such a variety of alcoholic beverages?)

He recognises the starting beat of the song, bass heavy and sensual like molten chocolate, closes his eyes and lets his body take over, hips and shoulders gyrating in practiced motions. It’s not surprising at all when he feels hands at his waist, not directing but simply accompanying his pace. A look over his shoulder deems the guy attractive enough and so Draco lowers his torso ever so slightly, covering the guy’s hands with his as he steps fully into Draco’s space, his breath hot on the nape of Draco’s neck, his crotch grinding into Draco’s arse on every upwards motion of their hips. Draco lets his head fall back on the guy’s shoulder, back arched, the bulge poking at his arse feeling more promising by the minute. As the guy starts to kiss his neck, Draco considers turning around and kissing him, but then he latches onto a particularly sensitive spot under Draco’s jaw and when his head rolls to the other side to give the guy better access, right on the edge of the dance floor is Potter, staring at him. _It really is sixth year all over,_ Draco muses before closing his eyes and promptly forgetting about Potter’s existence.

Another pair of hands lands on his hips and for a terrifying second Draco is sure that they’re Potter’s, but his eyes snap open to another brunette at his front – a bit too twinkly for him, so probably looking for a threesome with the hunk still attached to Draco’s neck like a leech, and Draco’s not really the type to share but the guy has a pretty face, all tan skin and full mouth, and this might be his last moment of peace for Merlin knows how long, so Draco pulls him in by the neck, intent on kissing except they’re still moving, the three of them, and Draco can’t line up their mouths _and_ keep a rhythm so he grabs the guy by the waist and turns them around so that he is not the one being sandwiched and Draco can properly look at the first bloke over the guy’s head, and _shit_ , he really is bloody fit.

One minute Draco is considering ditching their sandwich for some one-on-one time, and the other he’s watching as the guy crumbles to the floor like a sack of potatoes and _you’ve got to be fucking kidding me_. In a second he’s incensed, marching over towards Potter’s retreating back with only a single glance backwards to mutter the counter-jinx, too fuelled by righteous indignation to stop.

He knows a jelly-legs jinx when he sees one, and he _sure as fuck_ didn’t cast it.

 

He catches up to Potter just as he’s about to reach the stairs to the exit, made faster by his longer legs and murderous drive.

“What in _Merlin’s name_ is wrong with you, Potter?” He grabs Potter by the shoulder and drags them to the side so they’re not blocking the stairwell, “Are you trying to ruin my night twice over?”

At that, Potter’s apologetic face sours. _Good_ , Draco thinks viciously, he’s in no mood to deal with _Saint Potter_.

“ _I’m_ the one trying to ruin your night?” They’re so close, need to be in order to be understood over the music. Draco notes the tangy smell of beer in Potter’s breath as an afterthought. “You were the one who followed me here!”

“What in Merlin’s name are you on about, Potter?Draco pulls back, looking at Potter like he’s grown a second head. _Merlin_ , talk about delusions of grandeur, “You think I’d dress like _this_ to play spies with _you_?”

At Draco’s gesture Potter’s eyes follow the line of his body, and Draco is _not_ blushing.

“Well, what are you doing _here_ , then?”

“Trying to get _laid_ , Potter,” Draco explodes, “What the fuck does it look like I’m here for?”

Draco can almost see the cogs turning in Harry’s brain, followed by the moment of realisation where he blurts out, “You’re gay.”

Draco rolls his eyes, “And so are you by the looks of it, or were _you_ following _me_?”

Potter has the grace of looking mildly chastened, “Well, it’s a Muggle club,” he shrugs, “Thought you were luring the poor sod into your torture chambers.”

Draco can see it was intended as a joke, but it falls flat under the knowledge that Draco’s house does indeed possess torture chambers; or used to, before he and his mother sealed and vanished all the doors leading to the vaults. He is suddenly so tired, the most tired he’s ever been, and he just wants to go home and give up on any attempt to live a life outside of what his family’s done.

He lacks the energy to even keep on shouting at Potter, and so he just turns and starts to climb the steps Potter had attempted to escape through. On the landing there’s a corridor leading to another dance floor and the exit, but Draco just wants a secluded corner where he can Apparate home, and so in a swift movement he leans on the first fire exit he sees and draws out his wand from his jeans, touches it to the lock, whispers, “ _Alohomora”_ , feels more than hears the lock clicking as he spills out into a courtyard littered with rubbish bins and not much else. It’ll do.

“Malfoy, wait.” He hears Potter following him, pockets his wand and starts to visualise the entrance to the Manor, “ _Draco_.”

Draco supresses a shiver. Hearing his name on Potter’s lips does things to his insides that he won’t, _can’t_ dwell over. He turns over to where Harry’s just crossed into the courtyard, the fire door closing with a pneumatic _whoosh_ and keeping in most of the noise of the club. His ears are ringing when he grits out, “ _Yes?_ ”

“You’re drunk!” Potter says, as if whatever the fuck he means will be understood on just that. “You can get Splinched,” He adds helpfully.

Draco lifts a brow, “I’ve Apparated my way home while drunk plenty of times, Potter, but thanks for the concern,” he spits out with as much venom as he can muster. It’s a lie – he’s always sober when he makes his _Apparition of shame_ after spending the night at the place of whatever bloke he pulled that night, but he’s not about to let Potter in on that. Besides, the other option is standing in a dirty, piss-smelling courtyard with _Harry bloody Potter_ , so he’ll take his chances, “Or do you want me to take the _Knight Bus_ back to bloody Buckinghamshire?”

Potter’s silence indicates he was, indeed, about to suggest just that, “You’re having me on,” Draco laughs despite himself. _Him._ On a _bus._ “You think I’ll hop on a wizarding bus dressed like this?”

Potter’s eyes drop to his shirt again. Draco resists the urge to cross his arms only by means of pure stubbornness.

“You can use my Floo,” he blurts out, and then blushes prettily.

“Listen, Potter, thanks for the offer, but I can make my way home, really. Go back to-”

“I’m serious,” Potter interrupts, ever so fucking stubborn, “We don’t even have to take public transport. We’ll get a black cab, my place is just ten minutes away.”

“A black cab,” Draco echoes. He’d never admit it but he’s been dead curious to ride in a vehicle ever since he noticed Muggles were able to summon them with their smartphones; except Draco himself has no clue on how to summon one, or where to go. The only place he’s sure also belongs in Muggle London is King’s Cross station. “ _Fine_. Since you ruined my night, and all that.”

“Yeah, speaking of that,” Potter says, eyes straight ahead as they start to walk back towards the exit, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Potter’s meaning is lost on him for a moment until it clicks, and a huge tidal wave of relief washes over him. _Thank Merlin_ , he thinks, but what he says instead is, “Why the hell are _you_ hiding it for?”

Potter shrugs, waits until they’re down the street and past the people gathered in front of the club to say, “I just want the freedom to explore without people making a fuss over it.”

It makes sense, though he doubts he and Potter would have to deal with the same kind of reproach. Potter is so influential that his opening up about his sexuality could help change the wizarding world’s perception of it.

“What about all the girls the Prophet’s always on about? Is that stuff all made up?”

Potter continues to refuse to meet Draco’s eyes, “Not all of it.”

 “Oh my days, _Potter_ , you dirty little slut,” he grins, revelling in Potter’s tomato red face.

“I wasn’t the one playing meat in a Muggle sandwich just then,” Potter fires back, but Draco swallows any response he has when Potter adds, “And it’s _Harry_ , by the way.”

He considers calling him Potter still, just to be difficult, but he finds he doesn’t have it in him.

“Well, _Harry_ , I’d say ‘call me Draco’, but you already went ahead and took liberties,” Draco declares, secretly pleased by the way Harry can’t quite hide his grin behind his eye-roll.

“Shut up, Draco.” And _there’s_ that feeling in Draco’s stomach again.

 

They walk a few more meters in silence until they reach the corner of Charring Cross Road, where he watches curiously as Potter- no, _Harry,_ perches on the curb and lifts his hand as if to hail the Knight Bus. Draco takes an unconscious step back – he was _not_ joking when he said he wasn’t getting on that thing, Muggle clothing or not – but when after a few moments no giant blue monstrosity comes speeding down the street, he takes a few steps forward to join him. His warming charm is starting to wear off and his Muggle shirt is inutile against the wind.

“Can’t you just summon a vehicle for us, like the Muggles do? Surely you know how,” Draco says, watching as a black taxi speeds past them, ignoring Harry’s outstretched hand, “I don’t think they’ll just stop for a random guy in a street corner.”

“The black cabs do,” he says, both their heads turned towards the incoming late night traffic, “And if they don’t it’s because you look like a hooker.”

Draco’s mouth drops open in silent outrage, pulling an ugly laugh-snort out of Harry. He looks down at his sheer shirt and black skinny jeans.

“Let me educate you on a subject you know nothing about,” he says, “It’s called _fashion_.”

Draco looks down at himself again. Sure, he might look racy, that’s the whole point of the outfit, but he absolutely does not look like a hooker. No.

He’s no expert, but surely hookers can’t afford Gucci?

Harry looks back at him from his cab-hailing mission, bursting into a laugh again when he catches Draco examining his outfit.

“I was taking the piss, Draco.” He looks back towards the road, then, as an afterthought, adds, “You look nice,”

“I knew that already,” Draco quips, but the rest of his retort is cut off by a black vehicle coming to a stop in front of them. Draco takes it all in as one of the glass panels on the side disappears into the vehicle and Harry leans down on the gap left by it to talk with the Muggle driver – and he’s one to talk about Draco when his jeans leave so little to the imagination, Draco’s mind melting into a white hot explosion of _arse arse arse_ for a second – then he straightens up and pulls a small lever by the back and a good chunk of the side slides open.

They stare at each other, Harry’s hand on the vehicle door, Draco staring back at him, painfully out of his element, until Harry nods to the inside of the vehicle and _oh_ , he’s trying to be _chivalrous_.

Under normal circumstances Draco would have something to say about it, but all of his mental acuity is directed towards entering the black cab without making an arse of himself as he bends down and takes a look at the inside – there’s a padded bench, _thank Merlin_ , so he sits and slides to give Harry room to sit too – by Draco’s side, presumably, since the other seats are actually nothing but pivoting cushions held in place without magic by mysterious Muggle means. Draco leans over and tests one, pulling it down and applying pressure with his hand. It holds the weight, surprisingly, but he jumps in surprise when he lets go of it and the padded seat snaps back into place, Harry muffling a snort besides him.

Draco shoots him a dirty look but says nothing, mindful of the driver just the other side of the glass. Harry is silent, and really, are they supposed to stay silent for the journey? Would making conversation be a breach of etiquette, even if one knows one’s travelling companions? He pauses – are they going to have _strangers_ for travelling companions? Surely not, Harry said he wasn’t going to make Draco use public transport. Saint Potter wouldn’t trick anyone into something, even if said person was Draco.

Confident in his assessment, he returns to his inspection – the inside of the cab has a surprising amount of leg room, and it reminds him, vaguely, of the inside of a carriage. It’s warm, too, a welcome respite from the cold wind in the street. There are a few buttons that Draco is not going to push even though he is dying to – he doesn’t need to give Harry any more reasons to laugh at him. The seat is leather of surprisingly good quality, and so Draco relaxes into it and observes Muggle London passing outside of his window. He doesn’t recognise his surroundings, so they are definitely far away from the Leaky. Not that he’s terribly objectionable to being seen in Harry’s company, but he reasons Harry probably is. He said he’s in Muggle London to avoid “people making a fuss” – being seen with a former Death Eater is most definitely cause for ‘fussing’, Draco suspects.

 

They stop in a small square, rows and rows of identical townhouses surrounding it – but _Merlin_ , Muggles are boring. In a wizarding village no house is the same as the other. Yet, there’s something familiar in these terraced houses, like a memory he cannot quite place tugging at the edges of his conscience. There are no Muggles to be seen, but that is not surprising given that their daily lives revolve around the sun, and it _is_ rather late, closer to sunrise than to sunset, he reckons.

He waits until Harry has climbed out of the cab to ask, “Well, which one is yours?”

He watches as Harry peruses the unlit windows before looking at him and saying, in a rather formal tone, “The residence of Harry James Potter may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.”

He’s already inspected the doors, and there’s no number twelve. He turns to give Harry a look that is very much not amused, arms crossed – he’s freezing his bollocks off out here and Harry decides to develop a sense of humour. _Honestly_.

He opens his mouth – and then promptly shuts it when he catches movement out of his eye. Numbers eleven and thirteen are pulling apart to give way to the emerging number twelve, and a torrent of early childhood memories floods in all at once. He’s been there before, it’s– “The Black Family’s Home.”

“The Potter Family’s Home now, I reckon, even if it’s just me,” Harry says, pensive, before making to the front steps, leaving Draco to trail after him.

Draco distinctly remembers a house elf, though the house is completely silent when Harry lets them in. Some manner of housekeeping is definitely being done, though, he notes as he peers into the long entryway, and most certainly not by Harry himself, judging by the state of his hair most of the time.

There’s an aura to it – silent but not sombre, opulent but not unwelcoming. _The Manor’s polar opposite_ , Draco thinks bitterly. Still he waits by the door – he knows better than to just waltz into a wizarding house, especially one such as this one, old and ridden with several generations’ worth of protective spells. He might have Black blood running through his veins, but Harry is right – this hasn’t been the House of Black for years now. Draco doesn’t immediately rule out the possibility of it being charmed to _keep away_ people from the Black and Malfoy lineages, since he knows for a fact that he’s standing in the erstwhile _Order of The Phoenix_ ’s Headquarters.

He pulls his wand from his trousers, just in case – Harry might not even be aware of these spells. Merlin knows he’s got no clue about the extent of the ones guarding _his_ house.

Harry spots the movement from the corner of his eye, and in a second he’s whipped out his wand too, stepping in between Draco and the rest of the house.

“What is it?” Harry whispers, urgent.

 _Merlin_ , but Draco could climb him like a tree.

“It’s nothing,” Draco murmurs, suddenly feeling foolish, “Just in case the house is not as welcoming of the Black relatives as it once was.”

“Oh,” Harry lowers his wand, “Don’t worry about it. Teddy and Andromeda come for tea all the time.”

Draco’s interest is piqued at the mention of his estranged relatives, though he feels he doesn’t have a right to ask, all things considered. A beat of silence passes.

“I should go,” Draco says, watches as something he cannot parse flits through Harry’s expression, “Thank you for offering your Floo.”

“No problem,” Harry sighs, “Sorry about tonight.”

And there it is again, the missing piece in all of this. In the silent, unlit hallway, Draco feels brave.

“If you thought I was following you,” he starts, inquisitive, “Why did you jinx a Muggle and not _me_?”

Draco can’t quite see, but he’d bet more than a few galleons that Harry is blushing.

“Look, I said I’m sorry, alright? I’d had a few, I wasn’t really thinking.”

Draco waits, stands his ground, a penumbra of silence surrounding them.

The thing is, Draco already knows he’ll replay every nuance of this evening over and over for the next few months, a slice of contentment in the dull grey of his life. He’ll drive himself crazy trying to understand, wondering if he was imagining something that was never there – and he’s close enough to crazy as is.

“For Merlin’s sake, Draco, are you really gonna make me say it?”

Draco waits a beat. “Yes.”

“Before tonight, I thought there was _no way_ you–” Harry huffs, frustrated, examining a spot on the wallpaper a few inches from Draco’s shoulder, “You looked like you might’ve gone home with him.”

He sounds almost petulant when he says, “I wanted you to go home with _me_.”

There is a moment, right after Harry says it, that Draco is fairly sure he is going to pass out. His heartbeat is pulsing in his ears, and his own voice sounds far away when he says, “Well, I _have_ gone home with you, haven’t I?”

He pauses, gives Harry a moment of understanding. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

Harry’s eyes snap back to his and Draco holds his gaze, hoping he looks like he’s posing a challenge instead of how he really feels, vulnerable and embarrassingly close to begging. They stare at each other, the atmosphere around them suddenly heavier, expectant. One of Draco’s oldest fears is being scrutinized and found lacking, but right now he wants Harry to _look_.

He’s not sure who moves first, but in a second they’re apart and in the other they’re kissing, open-mouthed and sloppy, their knees knocking and wands clattering to the floor as they move until Draco’s met with the solid press of the wall behind him, the wainscoting digging painfully in his back, not that he cares, _Merlin_ , not with the way Harry’s kissing him, like he’s desperate for it, like he’s wanted this for longer than the last few hours which is _impossible_ , but Draco will take it, will take every bit of whatever Harry chooses to offer him, uncaring in a way he will berate himself for later when he whimpers at the feel of Harry’s dick against his thigh.

Harry pulls back just enough to attack his neck, a hard, vicious bite that has him gasping, his hands running all over Draco’s body, the lace of his shirt between Harry’s hand and his fevered skin, scratching in the most delicious way. He sinks his hands in Harry’s hair like he’s wanted to since _forever_ , and it catches on a knot, pulls at Harry’s scalp until he disentangles from Draco’s neck with an embarrassing slurp, like a proper leech, and Draco can bring their mouths together again.

He fumbles for the zip of Harry’s trousers, pulling it down and getting his hand in Harry’s pants in record time. Harry stutters, made uncoordinated for a second as Draco acquaintances himself with what has to be a prime specimen of dick, thick and heavy in Draco’s hand as he pulls it out and gives it a tight experimental jerk. Harry’s stopped kissing him entirely at this point, and they both look down to where Draco’s tugging him slowly, almost leisurely. It’s too dark to see anything, especially with Harry’s body casting a shadow over them and blocking whatever faint light filters in through the œil de bœuf above the door.

He’s about to drop to his knees when Harry seems to regain some measure of self-control and reaches for Draco’s jeans, pulling it down with rough hands until it’s over the swell of his arse, the fabric bunched at the top of his thighs. Harry doesn’t reach for him as expected but instead pushes his own jeans down, caging Draco in until his own hand, still on Harry’s dick, brushes over him. Draco gets the hint and wraps his hand over the both of them, and _shit_ , it almost doesn’t fit. Pleasure shoots down his spine when Harry braces one hand on either side of Draco’s shoulder, caging him in, moving deliberately so the drag of his dick over Draco’s is as maddening as possible. He could come like this, he thinks, paint the boy who lived with his release.

He moans wretchedly over a particularly good slide and Harry grunts out, “ _Draco_ ,” in what is most definitely the best way someone has said his name, ever, and brings one hand down to Draco’s bare arse, squeezing and pushing Draco’s hip towards him so that there’s no more space for Draco’s hand. Draco chooses instead to snake his arms around Harry’s shoulder and hold on for dear life, kissing him, their bodies flush, Harry’s other hand running down his waist to join the first in his arse. _An arse man_ , Draco thinks with a wicked sense of satisfaction as Harry’s hands explore his cheeks with something akin to desperation, his state of arousal obvious beyond his erection.

"Turn around," Harry says, and it isn't an order, but it sure as shit isn't a request. Draco doesn't know what it is, doesn't _care_ , his breathing harsh as he braces with his elbows on the wall, head turned to look over his shoulder as Harry shifts his own trousers the rest of the way off, before crouching down and doing the same with Draco’s, although with a bit more effort, Draco cursing the Muggle who invented skinny jeans as he wiggles helpfully out of it, all too aware of Harry’s face inches from his bare arse.

He steps out of his jeans, and then there’s a moment where everything is suspended, Harry slowly running his hands up Draco’s thighs as he holds his breath, the tips of his fingers tingling in anticipation. Harry leans in and _bites_ him in the meatiest part of his left cheek, so hard that Draco reflexively pushes out an undignified _ouch_ and glares at Harry over his shoulder.

Harry smirks, holds his stare, one hand gripping his thigh, holding him in place, as the other blindly gropes the floor, fingers closing over the nearest wand, _Draco’s_ , and pointing it down the corridor just long enough for a bottle of lube to come flying down the stairs and into his hand, and Draco absolutely does _not_ whimper at the sight of Harry using his wand to perform a non-verbal spell, still so well acquainted with it after so many years.

His eyes flit to the bottle Harry’s uncapping. He was half-expecting it to be Muggle lube but it’s the good stuff, and he bites his lips in anticipation when Harry uncaps it, turning back to the wall and closing his eyes – no matter how many times he’s done this, it’s always a bit embarrassing at first to let someone fiddle with your arsehole, isn’t it.

His fingers, in true Potter fashion, are direct. Immediate. He pushes one in right away, the second with minimal resistance, gives Draco a second to breathe before he leans in and licks around them, Draco’s flaming face hidden in the crook of his elbow even as he pushes his arse back against Harry’s ministrations. Harry moans his appreciation and it’s so _filthy_ that Harry’s into it, in the best kind of way. He starts properly fingering Draco in long, rough strokes, efficient about it in a way that tells Draco this is just the opening act. _In more ways than one_ , he can’t help but add, delirious in the absurdity of the situation he finds himself in, getting fingered by _Harry Bloody Potter_ in the foyer of the erstwhile seat of his mother’s family. He couldn’t have affronted his ancestors more _if he tried_ , Draco thinks with a pang of dark satisfaction, and proceeds to loudly let the house know just how bloody _good_ Harry is at it after he adds a third finger and twists his wrist in a way that makes Draco see spots in his vision, makes his knees weak.

In no time at all Harry is getting up, his arms circling Draco, lube slick fingers wrapping around his dick as Harry rests his forehead against Draco’s shoulder blades, and their small height difference makes it so very easy for him to slot himself into place, the head of his dick pressing against Draco, making him hold in an anticipatory breath.

He squeezes Draco’s hip once as if to ask for permission, holding perfectly still. Draco looks over his shoulder at Harry and they lock eyes for a few long seconds. And then Draco shifts against the wall, using his hands to brace himself as he arches his back and pushes against Harry, taking him in one continuous motion. They both groan, long and loud, Harry’s other hand flying to his hip as soon as he’s confident his dick won’t slip out, his hold heavy and commanding, and he’s probably leaving identical fingerprint bruises in either side of Draco’s hipbones and Draco couldn’t care _less_ , too caught up in the way he’s being split open. It’s everything.

“Fuck, Draco, you’re so tight,” Harry pants against the nape of his neck, his hips meeting Harry’s experimental thrusts in a way that’s almost lazy. He thinks about letting out some smartarse retort like _you say it to all the others_ but Harry’s not finished talking – most of it consisting of incomprehensible babbling interspersed with his name, _Draco, Draco, Draco_ as they pick up a rhythm, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling up the cavernous entryway, loud, and it makes it even harder for him to pick up on Harry’s words, harder still to contain his own moans in the face of the throbbing pleasure shooting up his spine.

He leans down, arches his back a little more, tries going on his tiptoes and it makes Harry’s next thrust hit his prostate dead on, so suddenly and overwhelmingly that Draco’s knees buckle. He has a moment of undignified staggering before he ditches the wall in favour of grabbing onto a monstrosity of a troll-leg umbrella stand, the nearest thing to support himself on, and turns to throw a look at Harry, come-hither and menacing at the same time.

“Don’t fucking stop.”

Harry, ever so obliging, shifts his grip on him, both hands anchoring himself on Draco’s waist as he rams into him over and over and over, and Draco’s more prepared this time when he goes on his tiptoes, the angle changes and stars burst behind his closed eyelids, a stream of filthy nonsense pouring out of him, one hands flying to his own dick and then he’s coming, right on the troll-leg and Harry’s carpet, and _Merlin’s beard, Merlin’s precious bloody beard, what was that._

 

This time his knees _do_ give out and only Harry’s hands helping support his weight keep him from crumbling to the floor in a spot on impression of the jelly-legs jinx.

“ _That_ is the problem with vertical sex,” he muses aloud, between one gasping breath and the other, leaning on the wall and letting it bear most of his weight, “Remaining vertical after it’s over.”

Harry makes a vague sound of agreement as he rests next to him against the wall, his eyes closed and his breathing ragged. A brief glance down confirms Harry has, indeed, finished, backed by the wetness currently seeping out of him, though Draco was apparently too out of it to pinpoint exactly when it happened.

The whole affair probably hasn’t lasted more than half an hour, but Draco wouldn’t rate it as anything less than an Outstanding. Even without taking into account Draco’s giant embarrassing crush on him, Harry is _that_ good. Clearly, he’s been around.

Harry pushes off the wall and bends down to scoop their wands, offering Draco’s wand back to him and using his own to Levitate their clothing off the floor. Draco casts a look at the spot he’s just baptized and points his wand, enunciating, “ _Tergeo.”_

He watches as his come is siphoned out of the carpet, but the umbrella stand remains as is. He tries, “ _Scourgify,_ ” also to no avail.

He’s trying to recall any other cleaning spells he knows when Harry chuckles and says, “Leave it.”

Draco’s head whips out to look at him, “What do you mean, _leave it?_ It’s going to stain. Do you want your guests to put away their umbrellas in a come-stained stand?” Harry laughs, and Draco can’t quite contain his grin as he adds, “Isn’t it ugly enough already?”

“It _is_ hideous, isn’t it?” Harry remarks over his dying giggles, “But I’ve grown fond of it.”

Draco looks at him for a beat.

“You are fucking weird.”

It makes Harry laugh again, and Draco thinks he’s never seen him this relaxed before. The wonders of a good shag.

“C’mon,” Harry takes hold of his wrist as he prompts him to move, and Draco’s so distracted by the contact he lets himself be pulled up the staircase and into the first landing, where through the open doors Draco can see a bathroom, a drawing room, and what he assumes is Harry’s room. They go through the latter, where old-fashioned gas lamps sputter to life at a flick of Harry’s wand, casting a warm light on the room. It consists of a double bed, a desk, wardrobe and an armchair, where their clothes are waiting, folded. Draco fishes his underwear out of the pile and with a silent nod of his head, exits the room and into the bathroom.

It’s large, elaborately ornate and much like his own bathroom at home. As Draco makes quick work of cleaning himself, he wonders if Harry enjoys living here. The whole house clashes vividly with what he expected Harry’s house would look like.

But then again, this whole evening is a testament to the fact that there’s more to Harry Potter than meets the eye.

 

He returns to the bedroom in underwear, his shirt coming to rest on top of his trousers – it had seemed silly to keep wearing it indoors, especially now that it has served its purpose of seduction.

Harry is standing by the lit fire, and Draco fears he’s misread the entire situation – if perhaps he ought to be putting on more clothing instead of taking it off. Harry’s staring at him.

“What happened to your mark?” he asks, blunt as ever.

Draco looks down at his forearm, where only the faintest shadow of his biggest mistake is visible. He answers, as neutrally as possible, “Concealer.”

Harry’s brow furrows.

“What kind of concealer charm would be strong enough to hide _that_?” His fingers twitch as if he wants to reach out, but seems to think better of it. Against all odds, Draco feels a smile tugging at his lips.

“Not a charm.” He voluntarily offers his arm up for inspection, Harry jumping at the chance.

“Muggle concealer. I saw a couple of drag queens at the club using it to cover their tattoos before a performance, thought it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.” Draco shrugs, “Turns out dark magic stands no chance against Muggle cosmetics.”

“Amazing,” Harry mutters, turning Draco’s arm this and that way. He looks up. “Muggles don’t know what it means, though. Why hide it from _them_?”

“I try my best to forget it exists. I’m hiding it from _me_.” He shrugs again. “Besides, they might not know what it means, but it’s still strange enough that it raises questions.”

Harry seems to accept this answer, and they fall silent. There’s nothing to be said, after all.

Harry nods once, looking determined, and asks, “Tea?”

 

 _What a bizarre night,_ Draco thinks as he starts to descend the stairs after Harry. Nothing about Harry is as expected.

“You’ve a nice place,” he quips for lack of anything better, “Wouldn’t have taken you for a house-proud kind of wizard.”

On the ground floor, they go through a door and down another set of stairs, though these are narrow and made of bare stone.

“Thank you,” Harry turns to smile at him, one of those smiles that are like a slap across the face in their reminder of just how bloody attractive he is. “It took us – me, Ron and Hermione – the better part of two years to shape it up into a place we could live in, instead of a mausoleum. I’m happy with how it turned out.”

 “I thought Weasley and Granger were shacked up together somewhere else? There was a marriage announcement in the Prophet, I recall.”

“Oh, they are now,” Harry smiles wistfully, “But right after the war there was no way I’d have lasted a month in this house all by myself, not in the state it was then – and in the state we were, too. So they moved in, though when Hermione went back to Hogwarts it was just me and Ron for a while. We continued to work on it as a way to keep ourselves sane while we figured out what is it we wanted to do, after.”

Draco remembers that first couple of years after the trials all too well – not a single mention of Harry in the Prophet for months on end, so much so that Draco suspected they were being owled a different version of the Prophet, edited for untrustworthy eyes. It’s a far cry from his guaranteed spot in the social pages nowadays, for sure.

He takes in the kitchen as Harry fills the kettle with water and turns the stove on with a flick of his wand. There’s an inconspicuous pouch of Floo powder by the hearth of the big fireplace at the end of the room, though Draco doubts he would be ushered out _sans_ clothes or shoes. Harry Summons two mugs from the cupboard and busies himself with the tea, all the while waffling on about how Ron and Hermione had suggested moving out after Harry had declared himself traumatised by walking in on them in a compromising position.

Draco is frankly not at all keen on being let in on the particulars of Weasley and Granger’s sex life, and he doubts the couple would be pleased either, but he listens, lets himself bask in the steady cadence of Harry’s voice all the same, indulges his infatuation like he hasn’t in a long time by taking notice of the little things – the shape of Harry’s neck as he turns his attention to Draco every now and then to see if he’s still listening to his detailed account of his duties as best man; the curve of his spine as it dips into his pert little arse, now sadly covered by grey pants; the way he makes their tea (too much milk and sugar); how he leans on the kitchen sink with one bare foot resting on top of the other. All of them conjure up a scene of domestic bliss that is so out of the realm of possibility for Draco that it makes his chest hurt.

It’s just a club shag, a brief dalliance that will have no repercussions – they’re both banking on the fact that to out the other would be to out oneself.

He’s completely sobered up now and could probably Apparate home without a problem, but his original motive for coming over was the Floo – it seems rude not to use it.

Harry’s in the middle of telling him about a Muggle tradition called _hen do_ and how Weasley has been so very cross that Granger is having one when Draco interrupts him.

“I really should go,” he says, and _there’s_ that expression again – a kicked puppy, as the Muggles would say. “I’m sure you want to get on with your evening, or go to bed.”

“I don’t,” Harry says, his tone somewhere between blanketly unassuming and sinfully insinuating, “I was hoping you’d stay a while longer.”

His eyes drag over Draco’s scantily-clad figure to drive the point home. “Unless you need to leave?”

Draco has to consciously tell himself to stop gripping the mug so hard or he’ll shatter it. He shakes his head, rendered mute.

“It’s settled, then,” Harry smiles, taking Draco’s half-drank tea off his hands and depositing it in the sink alongside his.

“Bedroom, this time?” Draco croaks, so turned on already he should be embarrassed by it. But he’s a healthy twenty-three-year-old about to shag his only teenage crush, _again._ He reckons he’s allowed. “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy testing the sturdiness of this table, but–”

“Bedroom,” Harry agrees, already turning for the stairs, leaving Draco to follow.

 

They’re less frantic the second time around, going up the stairs only marginally faster, exchanging glances and knocking elbows, and when they enter the bedroom again Draco makes a beeline for the bed, seating himself in the middle, leaning back with his hands on the mattress, his obvious erection put in evidence.

Harry takes it for the invitation it is and climbs on his lap, kissing for what feels like hours, until they’re both breathless with it, rutting against each other. He pushes Draco to lie flat on the bed, scooting back until he can set Draco’s dick free.

“You’ve no idea how many times I wanked to _this_ ,” Harry says, his hand wrapping around the base of Draco’s dick and giving it a slow, experimental tug.

“But you gave away nothing. You’re always so _poised_ , I never imagined –” Harry shakes his head, “When I saw you at the club I swear I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

“Well, _ditto_ ,” Draco pushes out between clenched teeth, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Harry’s hand slowly wanking him. _Fuck,_ but the boy is talented.

Harry chooses that moment to bend at the waist and lap at the head of his dick, once, before licking his lips and straightening up. He lets go of Draco only long enough to drag both their pants off and shift into a more comfortable position, kneeing his way between Draco’s legs and giving his dick a slow, hard lick, bollocks to head.

Draco collapses back into the bed, eyes rolling back as Harry takes him in, lowering his head until Draco can feel himself hit the back of his throat, and then takes a deep breath and goes lower still, until his nose is touching Draco’s pubic hair, pulls back just as slowly.

Draco digs his blunt nails into his palm and focuses on the pain, or else he is going to finish embarrassingly fast.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he grits out eloquently, and then again to drive the point home, “ _fuck._ ”

“In a bit,” Harry smirks before busying himself with Draco’s bollocks.

“Not really if you keep going,” Draco warns, the warm puff of Harry’s low laugh on his wet cock getting all the hairs in his body to stand up. Harry pushes himself off, one hand picking up the pace on his dick and the other supporting his own weight.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Draco pants, “Anything. Everything.”

“Might have to stay a bit longer for that,” Harry says around a shit-eating grin, “Definitely spend the night.”

“Okay,” Draco agrees, hopes Harry really is offering even as red warning signs flash in his mind. “Okay.”

Harry smiles, lowers his head back down and joins his hand, as if rewarding Draco. He, in turn, can’t help but moan, loud, helpless under the ministrations of Harry’s talented tongue.

Draco manages to hold out for a couple more minutes, until he’s not really in control of the way his hips stutter off the bed, the hand that made its way to Harry’s hair pulling at the strands,

“Harry,” Draco warns, stomach muscles clenching, “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come.”

Harry pops off.

“Not yet,” he states, and then grabs Draco’s bollocks and gives it a tug, not enough to properly hurt but enough that Draco bolts upright, alarmed. “I want you to ride me.”

“By trying to kill my boner?” Draco shrieks, batting his hands away and cupping his balls protectively.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Harry laughs, unconcerned, leaning back to grab the lube from his nightstand. “Now, will you do the honours this time or should I start getting used to doing all the work around here?”

Draco snatches the bottle from his hands, frown very much still in place even as his stomach is doing somersaults at Harry’s casual mention of any hypothetical future shag. He considers being difficult, but his boner is still intact and he’s not tethering at the edge anymore, even if he strongly disapproves of Harry’s methods.

He flips them, swallowing Harry’s _oof_ at landing on his back with a rough kiss. _He’s not the only one who knows how to manhandle_ , Draco thinks viciously as he grabs Harry’s wrists and drags them over his head, pinning him in place.

They pull apart but not by much, noses knocking together as Harry smirks at him and tests the strength of Draco’s hold on his wrist.

“I ought to teach you a lesson,” Draco says, low, just for the two of them, wanting nothing more than to wipe that smirk off Harry’s face.

He leans back and grinds down on Harry’s dick, watches as Harry’s hips buck up and his triceps bulge under the strain as he tries to break free of Draco’s hold. He probably could, under normal circumstances, but Draco’s not afraid to play dirty. He grinds down again, dragging himself over Harry’s cock, his thighs parting as far as they can, knees pushing into the mattress and outwards at each side of Harry’s hips.

Harry’s breathing hard, his hips pushing off the bed to meet him halfway. Draco’s still relaxed enough from earlier that he could take Harry in as is, probably, but he still needs to let go of Harry’s wrists to open the bottle and coat Harry’s dick in a generous amount of lube.

Harry’s hands paw at his thighs, his hips, his arse. He seems to catch onto Draco’s intentions when Draco shifts forward, holds Harry’s dick in place. His hands fly to Draco’s waist just as he’s started to drop his weight.

“I can do it,” Harry rushes out, trying to sit up and throwing Draco off balance. His slippery cock twitches and slides off Draco’s fingers, slaps back against his stomach, “I was just teasing – let me…”

 “I don’t _need_ it,” Draco grits out, making another grab for Harry’s dick. He’s putting too much of a fight for someone who’s about to be sat on. “I want it like this.”

Harry bites his lip, the picture of concern, almost looking like he’s not extremely interested in the idea of fucking a tight arsehole. _Almost_.

Draco smirks, reaches down again and gives Harry no time to prepare as he sits on him, and if Draco had felt a negligible amount of discomfort before, now the burn makes him clench his eyes shut, but he welcomes it, and it’s only a moment before he’s flush with Harry’s crotch, panting hard already as if he’s been bouncing on a dick for hours. Harry’s eyes are screwed shut in a grimace and every single one of his muscles that Draco can reach is pulled taut, vibrating with the need to move, but he keeps still for Draco’s sake.

Draco shows his appreciation by rotating his hips in a slow grind, testing the give of his arse around Harry’s dick. Harry sits up and winds his arms around Draco’s waist, rests his head against Draco’s collarbone.

“ _Merlin,_ the way you feel, it’s…” Harry shakes his head. “I should _not_ be enjoying it this much.”

Draco smirks, grinding a bit harder, his hips lifting off and bearing down in the smallest of movements.

“Tell me,” he pants, pulling on Harry’s hair until he’s looking up at him, “Tell me how I feel.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Harry answers, “I want to stay inside you for the rest of my life.”

“Does it turns you on that your big cock is splitting me in half?” Draco pants, upgrading his movements to tiny little bounces, “’Cause that’s how it feels– I can feel every inch of you.”

He throws his head back, using Harry’s shoulders and his grip on Draco’s arse for leverage as he starts to swivel on it. “Fuck, Harry, it burns so good.”

“Draco,” Harry whimpers, panting into the base of his neck, his hand snaking between their bodies to pull at his cock, “’m not gonna last.”

“I should– pull on your– balls– _Oh, fuck_ –” Draco manages to gasp out, his movements erratic, his quads burning, “See how you– like it,”

Harry doesn’t respond, the both of them rendered incoherent, but his hand on Draco’s dick squeezes a bit harder, pulls a bit faster. His other hand is probably going to leave a hand-shaped bruise on his arse and that’s what does him in – Draco falters, buries his face in Harry’s neck and comes so hard that his whole body _shakes_ with it, a long, drawn out moan ripping itself out, his muscles spasming. Harry jerks him through it until he’s oversensitive, and Draco has just enough strength left to bat his hand away when it becomes too much.

He vaguely notices Harry hasn’t come so he tries to move a bit but he’s useless now, boneless, and it’s so much easier to let Harry just move his pliant body around and fuck him, his thrusts are harsh and erratic.

 

Draco comes back to himself sometime later to find Harry leaning over him, his head propped on his elbow, his other hand tracing the patterns of his _Sectumsempra_ scars, nothing but faint white lines now. Draco doesn’t remember lying down.

He covers Harry’s hand with his and squeezes, Harry’s eye snapping back to his. He looks like he’s about to say something very _Potterish_ , and Draco is _so_ not ready for that conversation, so he doesn’t give Harry a chance to, pushes him on his back and rearranges them until he’s got his face buried in Harry’s neck, his body half on top of Harry’s, leg draped over his thighs. Harry drapes a blanket over them and his hand comes down to stroke Draco’s hair, and if he wasn’t sleepy before, he’s proper ready for a nap now.

Then he’ll go home. But first, a nap.

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thank you to Alice for holding my hand through the writing process, and to Amber for being the raddest beta on the block.


End file.
